Definitely want to buy this product now...
Sorry, can't make it. I have an appointment with me.
Running along the Southbank the other night after work, huffing and puffing and careering in and out of PEOPLE THAT HAVE TIME TO DAWDLE I clapped my eyes on something that nearly stopped me in my tracks.
A chic woman in a quilted puffer jacket (v. J Crew) was sat outside the BFI's Riverfront Bar, sipping slowly from a steaming great mug of coffee while reading a book under the warm red glow of an outdoor heater.
Nothing unusual about this you say and I agree. Yet, I couldn't take my eyes off her and a pang of mild envy smacked me round the chops without warning.
This malaise had nothing to do with not being able to feel my face thanks to an icy side wind coming off the Thames. Nor that my tatty Berghaus beanie made me resemble Badly Drawn Boy rather than a glowing goddess as we're supposed to look when exercising. No, this was because said lady was sat there doing absolutely nothing. Diddly squat. Nada. No phone, no companion, no evidence of work of any sort. Just her, a book and a hot beverage (and a great coat). There may even have been a cake. She was the antithesis of me; a picture of total and selfless relaxation.
As I trotted on towards the Hungerford Bridge and got stuck behind an overzealous tourist with a selfie stick, I mulled this over in my cold head. When was the last time I actually sat in a café and read something for leisure, rather than obligation? Stopped for longer than ten minutes to focus on one single thing, with no laptop, interruptions or iPhone and just savoured the pure, unadulterated enjoyment of reading?
I couldn't for the life of me remember. This troubled me.
Back in 2007 when I lived in Australia and first arrived as a pasty, scared thing and knew not a soul apart from my sister (I eventually dropped the fear but sadly the pallor never left) I would hang out in bookshops and various eateries in the early few days before city working. Just me, a Lonely Planet and a dog-eared book. I would gulp local coffee and read feverishly, stopping only to scribble some profound nonsense in a travel journal and have a nose at what was going on around me. I would eat whatever I felt like (*I'll have your finest flapjack and a plate of halloumi please*) and leave only when I couldn't make a tap water stretch any further or my bum had gone completely numb. A Jack Johnson soundtrack usually tinkled in the background, he being the epitome of repose.
Later independent travel provided further magic moments to pause in between destinations, seek out a second-hand bookshop and spend any leftover beer money on a battered but well-loved edition. As a result I was quite well-read and had a renewed sense of acuity and calmness. I'd meet the most interesting people when I least expected it. Luckily, Billy No Mates soon got some mates but I'd still disappear every now and then on my own.
Sigh. Which plonks me back down to Earth onto the arctic Southbank, the chilled lady and me squishing in an evening run. Clearly, when you're travelling / on your holidays you have a ton more free time on your hands. In those carefree days, I was sans responsibility, a busy job or an other half and my bestest mates were miles away. I could lounge about in hostels, chat to randoms and enjoy the benefit of wearing 'outdoor clothing' from Millets without fear of bumping into someone I knew. Just me, hanging out with me.
So the puffer lady got my brain ticking and ponder. Ahem, in a very Carrie Bradshaw way *typed words appear on screen*: Why couldn't we carve out some free time from our frantic schedules every now and then and gift it to ourselves? You know, take a breath and escape the chaos. Spend a bit of time doing exactly what we want, not what we have to. Enrich our souls and quiet our minds and... *thud*. That was the sound of a sleep-deprived parent throwing a Peppa Pig book at my head.
Ok, ok I hear you. The reality is there IS no spare time, barely time to pee let alone nibble on a flapjack and peruse a classic Hemingway. Life is so jam-packed and full these days, with crammed professional and personal schedules that there's hardly time to breathe. Free time is appallingly infinitesimal. But isn't it time we invested for the sake of our health and frazzled brains? Make an appointment with ourselves?
How about we all try this experiment together: Put a meeting in our diaries, half an hour here and there, just for ourselves and and stick to the commitment. Adjust this plan to fit to our individual circumstances - perhaps half hour when the kids are in bed to flop on the sofa and read, maybe escape the desk and Regain your Lunch Break as recommended by Stylist or get up with the larks and sneak out when your bed companion's still snoozing and go out for a stroll - just you, your iPod and your inner thoughts. Let's all report back on our findings.
My friend Vicki recently shared with me a beautiful phrase - dolce far niente which, roughly translated, means the 'sweetness of doing nothing'. What a gorgeous concept. Puffer lady had perfected her 'niente'. Mine's a bit rusty, but I've blocked out some time a few Sunday's away to experience the dolce of reading The Goldfinch, sat woefully on my bedside table unread since Crimbo, in a new brunch place round the corner. It should keep me grounded, power me through the bad stuff that life has chucked our way recently and reenact that wonderful sense of liberty I once experienced in Sydney, San Diego, Auckland, Hobart, Lima - right here in London.
So lovely friends, please accept my apologies the next time I decline a vino, a lunch or another adventure around town which you know I'm always up for - I have an appointment with me.
Next time you walk along the Southbank, take a look. It might be me there under the glow of a heater with my nose in a book.
In a better hat I hope.
Feeling foxy and sweaty
Good on you Sport England.
Your 'This Girl Can' national advertising campaign has made this girl very happy.
Developed by Sport England and partnership organisations to encourage women of all ages and backgrounds to be more active, it is one minute, thirty seconds of inspiration and realism that makes you want to fist pump / high-five / run up a hill / Zumba the hell out of your Tuesday night.
The campaign shows 'REAL' women doing REAL exercise in REAL situations. You know, the stuff that really happens - breaking into a sweat that leaves your hair stringy, pulling a fearless face that in your head looks determined and sexy but in execution is actually more Les Dawson gurn, flopping exhausted into a chair after a run and saying 'I'm knackered' instead of delicately sipping a kale smoothie as you yoga-breathe through your nose.
The clip features real women, looking wonderful with bits jiggling delightfully.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aN7lt0CYwHg]
It's the first serious foray into advertising for Sport England, despite forking out a huge sum for sport infrastructure and has been created in recognition that funding brilliant amenities is futile if women won't participate because they are afraid that (a) they don't belong (b) they aren't fit enough or good enough and (c) don't have the right gear.
I can relate to this fear entirely, I get it. My gym is full of gorgeous lithe women, some in full-face slap. The other day I witnessed false eyelashes in the weights area, I'm not kidding. This is in no way intended to be critical; I'm mostly in awe as I sod about on the bike peeking over my Evening Standard at these flawless creatures and purposely avoid the lady in the mirror with panda eyes, crazy hair and an ill-fitting t-shirt (me).
Attending a spin class can be a terrifying ordeal, as I recently experienced, with a gaggle of pert bums up in the air, cries of 'GUYS, TAKE IT UP A NOTCH' and American-style whoops and claps. I hid at the back wondering if anyone else's arse hurt as much as mine and if anyone would notice if I took it up a notch and left. I laugh at myself in the gym and smile at other people, as the ad-women do. When you sing in your head to 'Evacuate the Dancefloor' as you work out on the bicep curl machine, only to realise you actually sang out loud and people are staring, it helps to have sense of humour.
As for the right attire, you only have to plod through a few magazines in January before you're hit with a glut of predictable editorials on WORKING OUT and specifically doing so while wearing THE RIGHT KIT. Apparently, we must all be wearing directional joggers, splashy sweats, and neon kaleidoscope print leggings down our local Fitness First. The models wearing said stuff are perfect, downward facing dogging lovelies with perfect abs and look passive rather than active. Again, this isn't intended to be a criticism. I adore fashion, I pore over the pages and absorb the palette of colours, the labels and the capsule collections that in my (lottery) dreams I like to think I would be wearing in a Soul-Cycle class in LA with Victoria Beckham. It's just I'd much rather see magazines having the balls to feature ordinary women in affordable stuff that still looks good (hi, StellaSport, I'm waiting for pay-day and will be with you soon) rather than some labels that charge £235 for a pair of leggings and the possible use of airbrushing that makes us all feel shit.
I disagree with the recent Guardian article that inferred that This Girl Can is all about sex and not sport, and that it plays into the norms of objectifying female flesh. I'm disappointed that the newspaper chose to criticise rather than celebrate the fact that finally we had a campaign that didn't shame women. Instead I support the crusade entirely and I'm Team Moran.
I felt motivated when I first viewed the advert on TV and the next day when I ran outside in my not-perfect gear, with my bum wobbling and my under-£200 t-shirt, I felt OK. Foxy is not a sensation I feel frequently. When I think of foxy, I think of Beyoncé and all her toned fierceness. I think of Lana del Rey with curves and bee-stung lips. I do not think of me in an old grey running t-shirt, first worn in 2009 when I panted and cried my way around the route of my first Great North Run. Sweaty yes, bleeding even, but foxy no.
But maybe, just maybe, with the help of empowering campaigns like this I might start to feel foxy soon. Maybe this girl can.
Get your exercise on.
This Girl Can
Sport England
The Year of the Book
Mark Zuckerberg (Founder, Chairman and CEO of Facebook) has declared on Facebook (obvs) that 2015 will be the year of the book.
My challenge for 2015 is to read a new book every other week -- with an emphasis on learning about different cultures, beliefs, histories and technologies.
I'm excited for my reading challenge. I've found reading books very intellectually fulfilling. Books allow you to fully explore a topic and immerse yourself in a deeper way than most media today. I'm looking forward to shifting more of my media diet towards reading books.
Now, for the record, me and Mark aren't on good terms (in my head - I've never met the guy). In a previous post I pulled him up for allowing misogynistic content to be posted on Facebook without any kind of punitive action and I recently made a resolution to consider giving Facebook the elbow once and for all.
Yet, this challenge can only be a good thing, and I applaud Mark for the statement and for daring people to go back to basics. Also, particularly loving the term 'media diet' and will consider ways of dropping it casually into my own lexicon.
As Richard Godwin points out in tonight's Evening Standard, his own media diet over the festive period consisted of books (yes!), music (oh YES!), film (whoop!) and conversation (hurrah!) and most importantly an abstinence from Facebook and the like.
So in celebration of Mark's declaration and in recognition that I am an unabashed bookworm, I'm going to make a note of the books I've read in 2015 to document my own personal Year of the Book; something to ponder on in 2016 and perhaps build on. I'll update my list as I go along.
Hopefully you'll find some good recommendations or maybe, like me, be inspired to read more (rather than take a selfie, tweet or Google celebs in bikinis in January. Unavoidable, but sickening as you accept they probably didn't eat a Terry's Chocolate Orange a day in December).
I'll leave you with Richard's Godwin's very wise tips on how to avoid the temptation of succumbing to bad habits.
Carry a book in your bag. Don't charge your phone by your bedside. Subscribe to a print magazine. Most of all, delete the Facebook app. You'll have so much more energy.
I'll raise a book to that.
Stick the kettle on, love.
Eh? A blog post about tea?
I can almost see you now; rolling your eyes up to heaven, tutting loudly and saying 'Now hang on just a tick. I thought this was a blog about fashion. Or quirky places to go in Laaandan or books or something. Hot beverages? This isn't what I signed up for!' and going off in a grump.
Wait! Before you swipe / click off, there's a good reason for a whole post dedicated to this lovely aromatic drink. A monumental thing has happened... I've finally found a herbal tea that doesn't make me gag. Hurrah! Let's put the kettle on and celebrate.
Those closest to me will know I'm a proper tea monster. Can't get enough of the steaming hot stuff. Mornings simply are not manageable without a cuppa. My hangovers quiver in the presence of the boiling kettle, soon to be obliterated by a great big gulp of tea and its close mate, buttery-Marmite on a generous wedge of seedy granary toast.
I'm a proud Brit and therefore tea naturally pumps through my veins. We all have a cuppa in a crisis, it's WHAT WE DO - just like those cheery folk in Eastenders; many a juicy scandal in Albert Square has been sorted out over a brew. Fact. I'm also a tea drinker for all seasons. Autumn and Winter were made for tea drinking, but Summer's cool too. Remember being little and watching adults drink tea in the hot weather? Utter 'nanas, you thought. Then you grew up. Then you got it.
I'm particular about how I take my tea, mind. (1) It has to be served in a proper big mug (my Crystal Palace FC official merchandise one if you're asking, cheers) or I might have no choice but to send it back. (2) Decaf preferable so I'm not running around the room completely wired. I have too much dispensable energy to play with at the best of times. (3) As a non cows milk drinker (no dietary reason / intolerance but even a whiff of it can render me a heaving mess) my tea has to be taken nearly black. Not completely milk free though, just a dash. I'm not talking builders here; if it resembles a deep chestnut-brown colour and therefore rather vile then that's lovely, thanks very much.
I'm a hoot when it comes to the office tea round, you can guess. My colleague at work once said a rude word and quipped 'Greenbrook, this ain't Starbucks!' when I accepted the offer of tea and then proceeded to place my specific order. He had a point. When it comes to a brew, I'm a fuss pot.
Although the health messages are confusing ('Tea's good, better than water!' 'Tea's bad, whatever you do, don't drink it! etc) I'm all too aware that I should cut down once in a while. So, every now and then I venture into dangerous territory and try one of the herbal teas that have infused the market with their potent offer of fruity loveliness and health and wellbeing super powers. Oh, to be one of those virtuous people who decline a proper brew, requesting instead some hot water to submerge their bag in. Those healthy individuals who delicately (smugly?) sip a green or nettle tea as I greedily gulp down a proper cha and feel sated but a little bit dirty.
Yet, try as I might, I just can't do it. Herbal teas are my kryptonite. Honey and lemon makes me nauseous. I have no idea why but fruit tea makes me think of socks. And tea towels. Yes, tea towels. I smell Blackberry and Vanilla tea and that's enough for me. I can just about do half a cup of Peppermint - its digestive powers have soothed many a sore tummy in the past and restored a feeling of neutrality after gorging and guzzling way too much but only a half. Otherwise I start to gurn a bit and believe me that's not pretty. So, in summary fruity infusions and herbal potions sadly make me want to gag.
That is until I discovered Pukka's Peppermint & Licorice. Safely, warmly ensconced in The Scarlet Hotel in Cornwall last week (more on that soon) and draped on a lounger in the Relaxation Room, guests were invited to try the Pukka tea of the day, and that fine day it happened to be the minty, sweet one.
In an attempt to blend in with the tranquil surroundings, I politely sipped a tiny gulp of the chartreuse liquid, waited for the inevitable gag and then BAM, instead I got pleasantly smacked around the chops with the sweet candy taste of licorice, the perfect extract to cut through the vibrant minty flavour. Yes! Absolutely no retch! It was delicious - soothing, tasty and refreshing; all the things I look for in a herbal tea. It was a revelation and it was all I could do not to leap off my lounger and high-five a guest. (I didn't, you and The Scarlet management will be pleased to know).
So, as of today I'm the kinda gal that brings my own tea bags into work. My ornate, floral Pukka box with flashes of pink and green sits elegantly on my desk (next to my over-spilling stationery tidy and an empty fruit bowl. Must zen desk). I calmly order a hot water when the office tea round comes a knocking, ready to dip my bag as it were and politely (smugly?) declining the strong stuff. Yes, people. I'm now one of them.
Have no fear though. I'm still a sucker for the real deal and not a total disciple of the herbal tea leaf just yet. You can take the girl away from the tea but you can't take the tea out of the girl - I'm a proper brew drinker at heart. Shame on you, my eye is not turned that easily! There is nothing quite like the taste of real tea, in a great big bottomless mug and in this complex and sometimes over-complicated world it's the small things. It's just that now I can drink something else that makes me feel a little bit saintly and it really is delish.
So there you have it. Pukka teas have enlightened my tea-drinking habits and I'm made up. Don't worry, normal service will resume with a fashion related post next but it's pukka and I felt the need to share with you.
Until then, stick the kettle on will you? I'm gasping.
Pukka Website
Pukka Twitter
Pukka Facebook
Abs-olutely Not Fabulous
If you’re not a size 6, then you’re not good looking. Well you better be rich or be real good at cooking.
Is it me, or is it impossible right now to open a magazine or join the social media circus without an abdominal muscle smack bang in your face?
It feels like we can't move for six-packs, cheese-grater abs, pancake-flat stomachs and washboard midriffs all over the show. Perfectly honed abs are TAKING OVER THE WORLD and it's becoming a bit grating if you'll pardon the pun.
The fabulous Polly Vernon recently declared ankles and the midriff the erogenous zones of Now, with a capital N. Polly talks a load of sense (and charts lust in such a clever way that even Howard Jacobson took note) so this must be a Thing. Furthermore, the other day the Chart Of Lust used Rihanna (yawn) to launch a semi-regular Abs of the Week segment which means, Lord help us, a dose of feel-terrible-about-your-non-celebrity-body to stomach (if you'll pardon the pun, again).
Instagram, once an interesting platform for wonderful photos (that's you, thegoodly), somewhere to nose around at what the famous ones are up to and catch Breaking.Fashion.News with a FROW-side view (behold, there are feminists on the Chanel Catwalk! etc) is fast descending into a shameless, look-at-me fest to rival its archenemy Facebook. There are now squillions of accounts dedicated to manic, pumping fitness churning out a stream of toned body parts, especially abs, that makes you feel guilty as hell for eating five segments of Terry's Chocolate Orange when you only meant to pop one in your mouth (NB: surely orange oil provides one of your five a day?). Even if you accept deep down the clever use of filtering, saturation, sharpening and the like is at play it's hard not to suck in your tummy and pull down your top a bit self-consciously.
There's no escaping the fact that abs are getting cosy with fashion - crop tops and bralets are having a moment and have been in that moment for a while now, with labels like Carven, Louis Vuitton and Calvin Klein featuring wispy models with stomachs on show over the past couple of seasons. Just like brilliant clompy ugly-chic shoes, cropped tops are now a regular feature on the catwalk. Styling the beautiful Rosamund Pike in a Dior Cropped Wool Polo Neck with a sizeable portion of midriff on show in the October 2014 edition of British Vogue is evidence enough that it is de rigueur to flash one's belly.
Wait. Before I go on, let me make one thing absolutely crystal here before you pelt me with a protein shake - I'm no fit-shamer. I'm a regular gym-goer and squish working out into a busy schedule to counterbalance my penchant for consuming Prosecco and orange-flavoured chocolate. Arguably, it's a feminist issue too - women should be able to celebrate their bodies and no one has the right to deny them of their choice to portray or display themselves as they damn well please.
What really gets my goat though is the enormous pressure on women (and men) to look 'perfect' and how society expects us to look and behave. The saturation of images in the media, print or digital, deemed to be the ideal but in reality are unattainable-without-a-personal-trainer-or-eating-only-green-stuff might feel like a smack in the gut (sorry, again) for people who have a job, raise children, fulfil caring responsibilities and have a bit more on their plate to deal with than sculpting their hard abs. For the Wonder Women who work hard on their bodies AND lead their busy lives (and just get on in with it rather than share with the rest of the world) I salute you.
It makes me wonder though, is this never-ending stream of idealism sending us all a bit doolally as we try to achieve the almost unachievable? I'm scared we're losing the plot. Women are squeezing 7 Minute Workouts into every available cavity of the day and furiously Pushing Up, Crunching, Squatting, Dipping, Jumping Jacking and Planking the shit out of every spare moment, even when we're supposed to be resting or on holiday. We're being sucked into the social media vacuum and hanging on for dear life as we're told what we're expected to do and achieve. 'How Kim got her little waist'. 'How to get Ellie Goulding's toned Glastonbury torso'. 'Millie's non-stop work outs'. Non-stop? Argh. Stop!
Without disclosing the account name (as Jameela Jamil once said this is the moment you go from having an opinion to being a bully) there is one particular transformational fitness Instagram account that alarms and fascinates me. The owner of said account in the US recently shared photos of herself at a spa tricep-dipping off any available flat surface, barely allowing a moment of relaxation to pass without flexing a muscle or springing up and down. The accompanying commentary said 'No spa day is complete without a tricep hold' and #MostRelaxingDayEver. Dear God, it's a SPA. SIT DOWN. Read a book. Give yourself a break. Flop on a lounger and grab yourself a glass of fizz. Un-dip yourself at once.
Worryingly, 'skinny apps' exist that allow users to slim down their pictures for Instagram. SkinneePix claims to help you 'edit your Selfies to look 5, 10 or 15 lbs skinnier in two quick clicks on your iPhone. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s fun'. Erm, it's the end of sense as we know it. A distorted concept. Since when did abs become more important than showcasing kindness, intelligence and talent?
Is the relentless ab-onslaught putting women under immense pressure to look perfect when we should be conserving our energy for important topics like as the gender pay gap and carving the way for the women of tomorrow? Julie Bentley, CEO of GirlGuiding UK recently spoke in Stylist Magazine of visiting girls who were participating in her Be Body Confident campaign and Free Being Me badge that centres on tackling girls' low self-esteem. She cites that 'girls are often aware of what society suggests they are supposed to look like - but this isn't necessary what they see themselves when they look in the mirror'. This really makes me sad. They should be celebrating their ambition and achievement, not worrying about their looks.
I'll leave you with this powerful entry to the marvellous Everyday Sexism Project to put things into perspective.
I look at images of women everywhere I go - in shop windows, on the sides of buses, in the tube, on the backs of newspapers, in magazines open on women's laps, on billboards, on videos, on TV, on the internet, popping up in my screen. They are all the same. They are taller than me, so much thinner than me, beautiful, flawless, perfectly made up. Many, many of them are revealing their long, toned legs right the way up to the tops, their flat, flawless stomachs in all their tiny, tiny glory, their ample cleavages looking perfect - not fat but perky. They are all that way - there aren't any that I can look at and think, she's a bit like me, that's OK. And they are everywhere. There is no escape. When I look in the mirror, I see myself and over the top I superimpose that image and all I see is the difference between us. When I meet new people I feel like they are looking through me to those differences too. She is everywhere and I can't escape her and I'm terrified my boyfriend compares her to me constantly and finds me constantly wanting. Know the funniest part? I'm a very normal size. I'm not obese or fat, I have a pretty good figure. But it's nothing compared to hers. And she's everywhere.
So now I am SHOUTING at you (with a Chanel-inspired megaphone). Inspirational, beautiful, intelligent women everywhere, let's see your talent and ideas, your kindness and strength as well as your lovely stomachs - no matter the shape, size or hours spent moulding them (or filtering them).
Don't waste your time, effort and energy on the unachievable and entirely unimportant. There is no need to reflect your worth through your body parts and let's stop feeding the media circus that perpetuates this ridiculous, asinine ideal.
You are so much better than that.
You are amazing as you are.
'I feel I was put on earth for a number of reasons... The biggest reason is to help normalise a certain kind of body (and therefore all bodies).
Lena Dunham
Goodbye Company Magazine (and farewell style and substance)
Bad news reached me via social media last week - Company Magazine will be ending its print run in October 2014.
Admittedly, placed alongside the world's global atrocities this newsflash pales in comparison; but I'm still sad and in a bit of a panic.
First up, the sad bit. It's fair to say I am a total fashion magazine freak. There is inadequate room for my magazine collection in my current lodgings. They spill out of boxes and lean defiantly against anything unyielding and upright, creating a Domino Rally effect around the room if accidentally knocked into - and that's just the fashion weeklies. Don't even get me started on the fashion monthlies; my husband stubbed his toe on my 2014 Vogue back catalogue the other day and his language was neither elegant nor tasteful as befits the content. I am seriously considering investing in extra storage in my new gaff to accommodate my dirty habit.
Please don't think I'm strange or put me forward as subject matter for Britain's Biggest Hoarders. You see, magazines provide me with a trickling stream of fashion-inspo, useful knowledge and cultural fodder to feed my inquisitive mind. My wonky right shoulder and slightly loosened Michael Kors Tote bear the brunt of my addiction as newly purchased magazines get hoofed around London, along with their best mate A Proper Book, ready to devour whenever a gap in the day permits.
Company is undoubtedly high up the list of my favourite monthlies and I'm disheartened by the news that the Hearst UK magazine will cease print publication after 36 years and go digital only.
In my opinion it's one of the best reads out there. I love how it resembles a beautiful picture book but with impressive material to accompany the imagery. The front cover is always a riot of colour and adorned with fierce female leads (Hi, Haim in the We Love Paris February 2014 issue) and each spine declares a quirky little message to steer you through the most difficult of days, such as You're Gonna Need a Bigger Wardrobe!' and See You at the Style Stage.
Its matte-finish, scrapbook-style layout and splashes of complimentary hues are charming. The blog-like photographs are stunning but there's also a whole lot of substance among the pages. Company's Features Writers give good feature - engaging articles that inspire and I read the entire thing from cover to cover rather than flick through aimlessly.
The fashion is incomparable and like me, Company fully appreciates the terrific collision between music and fashion. Sumptuous mood boards, smart edits and photos of fashion idols that valiantly lead the style tribes - like the inimitable Julia Sarr-Jamois - always co-exist with hot pieces from the high street, a cool new website or a lusted-after designer. It never feels exclusive or unobtainable though; clever styling and writing tricks you into believing the style editors are just like you - rather than über-stylish fashionistas.
Arguably, Company is educational with new-season books, apps that enhance your life, career tips for bloggers and stuff that is #trending - like actual brand-new restaurants, books, gigs and fashion launches that make you believe they've been cherry-picked just for you. The magazine remains, to the best of my knowledge, a Kardashian-free zone and in the age of hyperbole and celebrity-saturation that's no mean feat. It champions women who help make the world a better place with creativity and talent and who carve the way for the next generation of smart young things eager to make their mark.
Finally, it's honest and really funny - like having your best mate at your side. Columnist Jameela Jamil completely won me over in April 2003 when she was brave enough to defy the army of Rihanna fans. Her hilarious article about the artist's constant flashing of her, ahem, bits and potential impact on younger fans who may believe getting naked is the only way to prove your worth, was inspired. It mirrored my own thoughts about this subject and any article that closes with Rihanna, I love you, but put your m*nge away will you? 'is a winner for me. You must read it, it's brilliant.
So, the panic bit. Sadly, the printed version of Company magazine joins the list of my favourite things now discontinued and never to be seen again (like Bobbi Brown Eye Shadow in Fawn - an outrage!) and this leaves me a bit concerned about what's left fluttering around in the magazine market.
Amongst the torrent of appalling weeklies that lurk on the shelves - you know the sort, crammed with salacious non-news and diet and exercise obsession that leaves women feeling awful about their bodies - Company is a beacon of sense and positivity. A cool best mate among a gang of mean girls.
It never bitches or focuses on the inane, it celebrates the pioneers. Magazines that belittle, objectify and pit women against other women are not cool. "Lauren Goodger is branded 'tragic' for her boob selfles" was a heading that shrieked from the page of a well-known weekly the other day. Is this really what we've got to look forward to instead? If so ladies, we're doomed. It's money-making meanness and it drains my brain. Boobs, bums, diatribe against women and obsessions with how we look rather than what we achieve does not a good magazine make.
We're entering into a new phase and I guess it's time I faced facts and accepted that reading habits are changing. According to Anna Jones, Hearst Magazines UK chief executive “As a standalone digital brand, Company is well placed to provide a unique and dedicated service to this dynamic 16-24 old female demographic" - which is great news (and hope 30-somethings are allowed in too). Company already has a notable social media presence across all the well-known channels and so if I can get my fix online now then it's not all bad.
So farewell printed Company magazine, you have been influential. I look forward to your legacy continuing in digital form but will definitely miss your colourful, matte print version - and opportunities to re-create a Domino Rally topple which, let's face it, is pretty awesome.
References
13 August 2014 – the guardian.com – Company magazine to go digital-only amid falling sales April 2003 – company. co.uk - Put It Away RiRi!
Links
Jacknife Posters
Our designs are big, bold and brash… and sometimes subtle and understated. I try to match the feel and energy I get from the band's music with my design for their poster. A good gig poster should sum up that band, at that gig, at that point in time.
Chris Hopewell (Poster Designer)
Roaming around Latitude Festival recently in between acts, I stumbled across Jacknife Posters who were in residence with their incredible display of gig posters. It was a fortuitous discovery as the prints blew me away.
Bristol based Jacknife Posters, formed in 2006, design and produce stunning hand silk screen printed gig and tour posters using superlative paper and inks. Each poster is a guaranteed one-off, signed and individually numbered by the designer, which renders them immediately unique and collectable.
Whether bold and vibrant or subtle and modest, each poster is incredibly striking and I spent ages flicking through the designs on show. Whether you are into rock or indie music or not (I am), the graphic sophistication teamed with splashes of juxtaposed colour and awesome typography will snatch your attention. The female characters are fierce, irrepressible heroines captured flawlessly by the designers.
I have my eye on this Queens of the Stone Age print from Primavera, Barcelona on 29 May 2014. If you're a band, manager, or promoter and you like what you see, then Jacknife may design something for you. You lucky things.
These are posters for art and music lovers everywhere and officially my new obsession.
Jacknife Posters Website
Jacknife Posters Twitter
Latitude Festival
